


no grave

by Jayde_Spell



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alluding to An Eating Disorder, Amnesia, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hydra, M/M, Memory Loop, Mental Instability, Mind Control, Non-Graphic Torture, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre - Avengers: Infinity War, Pre - Captain America: Winter Soldier, Stucky - Freeform, Sweat, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, author has a lot of feelings, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayde_Spell/pseuds/Jayde_Spell
Summary: There are holes where memories should be - The Winter Soldier understands that. He knows he has a lot of missing pieces.There is one thing he’d like to forget.





	no grave

**Author's Note:**

> Non-Beta’d. First fic! Please be gentle. (:

The Winter Soldier is drenched in sweat. It runs down his head, leaves trails down his face and his hair curls with the heated warmth. 

He knows that sweat is salty and sticky. Abstractly. It's some fact that's been programmed inside his head and The Winter Soldier is curious. He found himself in this state after waking up from a peculiar dream. Mostly his dreams are hazes of gray and are easily forgettable. Tonight, it started out the same but, there's a pair of blue eyes. A blond head. Blood. He knows that the sweat on his forehead is salty, abstractly. He knows that the blue eyes in his dreams mean nothing. They are not important or even that extraordinary. Just plain old blue. The Winter Soldier is shaking. There is a blond head and blue eyes looking at him and he is falling, he's falling, and then he wakes up. 

Weeks. Months. Years. It's all the same to him, so he begins to count time by trips to his handlers. He figures it's been since two visits to his handlers that he's had this dream. Maybe even before then. He's not positive on what the handlers can and can't erase in his visits. 

There's a blond head and blue eyes. It doesn't matter because The Winter Soldier has a mission. 

There's always a mission. He knows this. It's a part of him. His arm gleams and he knows that once his arm was made of flesh. He knows this abstractly. 

There is blood on his arm. It shines and The Winter Soldier is momentarily stunned into paralysis by it. There's screaming, there's always screaming, she's louder than he thought she would be, and he feels like he should be disappointed. He's not sure. 

He knows that he should feel something. It doesn't matter. The mission is completed. Another notch, another string cut, another voiceless face staring back at him. He doesn't feel anything. 

Years continue to go by. Months. Weeks. Or maybe not. He can't remember the last time his handlers wiped him. 

He wakes up drenched in sweat. A pair of plain blue eyes. Short blonde hair. The Winter Soldier ponders the strangeness of the dream. 

Life is on repeat. The Soldier eats, he sleeps. His handlers don't control this and it makes him greedy. He's not sure why, since he doesn't feel like other people he's observed do. But he likes to keep it to himself. When and what he eats. When and where he sleeps. He doesn't mind the muzzle, the arm, the missions. In fact, he enjoys them. As much as he can enjoy anything. The control he has over his food and sleep keeps him docile. He thinks about snapping, sometimes (all the time). He wonders what his handler's face would look like if he took the knife that he hides in his boot and stuck it in the handler's neck. He thinks about that a lot. He doesn't always use the knife, though. Sometimes it's a gun. 

Bang.  
Bang.  
Bang.

... and they'd all be gone. It's always so simple in his mind. It's like a mission, find and eliminate target. Except. There's a flaw in the chemistry of his brain, in his make-up. The Winter Soldier is beginning to suspect that his handlers have programmed him to not be disloyal. It should be so easy. Maybe he'd just use his prosthetic arm. Messier, perhaps. But the irony is not lost on The Soldier. However, every time he revisits command center, he freezes up. The irony of that isn't lost on him either. So instead of attacking his superiors, he eats. He sleeps. His dreams leave him in a sweat. He eats more, some days he doesn't eat at all. It feels good. To be in control. He doesn't have to worry about blond hair or blue eyes when he eats. Life is on repeat. 

Weeks. Months. Years.

Bang.  
Bang.  
Bang.

**Author's Note:**

> ... like?


End file.
